


Madman and a Fool

by MellytheHun



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Groping, Humor, Hurt Crowley, Idiots in Love, Jealous Aziraphale (Good Omens), Jealousy, Kissing, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Miscommunication, Monologue, Oblivious Aziraphale, Oblivious Crowley, Oh god the pining, Oral Sex, Pining, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Prayer, Quick Resolution Tho, Reflections on The Fall, Religion, Romance, Schmoop, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wing Kink, Wings, adoration, anyway, i disgust myself, possessive Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-20 13:59:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: God considers Crowley's unyielding pining for Aziraphale, his acts during the End of the World, and his very genuine desire to protect Aziraphale, worth rewarding. She can't make him an Angel again, but She can nudge Aziraphale in the right direction.If nothing else, She'd really just like Crowley to stop using Her prayer inbox for endless soliloquies about Aziraphale.





	1. Did My Best to Get Along

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by the song 'Happy,' by The Daylights.
> 
> Also, it kiLLS me that they cast Sandalphon as a completely, normal-sized person. Sandalphon, in the Torah, is described as the tallest Angel of all - his feet reach the Earth, while his head reaches Heaven, which is how he delivers prayers from Earth to God. If he'd been a particularly short person, that'd have been funny - if he'd been a ridiculously tall person, that'd have been funny too, buT INSTEAD THEY CAST A COMPLETELY AVERAGE-HEIGHT PERSON AS SANDALPHON AND I SCREAM

This particular Tuesday afternoon is sunny, sunnier than average, even (only 44% chance of cloudiness before the day is out), the shop is mostly quiet (only visitors have been three teenagers very clearly skipping class, at around 11:30am), and Aziraphale has only just sat down with a cup of tea when a Heavenly beam of light practically blinds him.

 

Standing before him, then, is Sandalphon.

 

“Oh… hello,” Aziraphale greets shakily, hackles rising.

 

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to bring you back,” Sandalphon assures him, seeming to check himself for dust, or fly-aways on his suit, “In fact, you can’t go on telling people I visited you today at all, alright? This is strictly off-record. Private business.”

 

Solemn, and checking that the store is indeed empty, Aziraphale nods, and asks, “certainly. So, to what do I owe the pleasure, then?”

 

“You do know my job, right?” Sandalphon inquires, sitting across from Aziraphale, “I am the channel between Earthly prayers, and the Almighty Herself. I deliver prayers to Her, and it is often my charge to answer them with some degree of clarity, on Her behalf. _She_ is why I’m here, though.”

 

Human-ish heart plummeting into his human-ish stomach, Aziraphale pales, asking, “goodness - you are here on _Her_ orders?”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Sandalphon matches his severity, “Frankly, Her… inbox is too full of requests concerning you, and She’s tried addressing the issue Herself, but to no avail. So, it has fallen to me.”

 

“Wait - She has _failed_? How do you _mean_? And what prayers could concern _me_?” Aziraphale fires off, hands twitching in his lap, tea on his desktop forgotten.

 

“Crowley.”

 

Aziraphale’s heart-thing makes a valiant effort to climb back up from his stomach-thing, and into his throat-thing, perhaps hoping it could make a break for freedom to avoid inquirers - it’s a telling organ, after all, and it’s got ‘Crowley,’ written all over it.

 

The heart-thing settles for pounding loudly in his ears, rather than being thrown up, though; small blessings, Aziraphale supposes.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“The prayers are all from Crowley, the Demon,” Sandalphon explains, reaching for what appears to be a pocket square at the front of his suit, and then shaking it out, revealing it to be a seemingly unending scroll that drops down to the floor, rolling down to the back of the shop, and probably further.

 

Aziraphale stares blankly at Sandalphon, meaning to understand what it is he is hearing, or seeing, but finding it terribly difficult.

 

At the evident befuddlement on Aziraphale’s face, Sandalphon rolls his eyes, looking down at the script, “Crowley doesn’t realize he’s praying, most of the time. It’s an unconscious type of behavior. Either way, She tried to speak to him, give him solutions to his own problems, but She took a form he didn’t bother listening to. That’s the trouble with Her, really - whenever She comes to Earth, She insists on being covert. If She’d taken on the form of a burning bush again, or just walked up to him as a glowing ball of eyes and wings, and said, “Crowley, it is I, Lord, God, Mother of this universe, and now listen straight,” he may have, but She… went a different route. I think a homeless vagrant, or something. Anyway, I’m here to solve it once and for all, by whatever means necessary.”

 

Cocking a brow, and looking over the top of the scroll at Aziraphale, Sandalphon tells him, “I’m not meant to tell subjects of prayers that they have been prayed about, or for. This is not proper conduct, but She told me to just ‘do whatever it takes,’ granted it doesn’t interfere with your free will. I am here, assuming you will keep my confidence.”

 

“Of course,” Aziraphale scrambles to say, “Yes - of course. No one will know, I swear it.”

 

“Good,” Sandalphon continues, “Let’s start, then. There are exactly one-million seven-hundred-twenty-five-thousand, six-hundred and eighty-eight prayers concerning your wellness, safety, happiness, and time on Earth originating from Crowley, the Demon.”

 

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale breathes out, heart still drumming away.

 

“It’s gratuitous, Aziraphale,” Sandalphon complains, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I am here to solve a problem, though, and the problem is this…”

 

Sandalphon leans closer to Aziraphale, looking stern, and then he demands, “tell this Demon Crowley precisely the nature of your relationship. Just tell him. I don’t know what it is, I don’t care what it is, and I don’t care to know what it becomes - but for the love of all that is holy, Aziraphale, make this Demon _shut up_. We’ve flagged his incoming prayers as spam, you know? There’s only three other beings in all of spacetime the Lord has had to do that with.”

 

Smirking, Aziraphale gesticulates coyly, and brags, “he came up with spam emails, actually - Crowley, that is. In fact, he also came up with cellphone solicitors, as well, but he’s rather mad about that one, as he’s always getting calls from them now -”

 

“I don’t care!” Sandalphon interrupts, agitated, “I don’t care! Ugh - this is all so plebeian. Good God.”

 

“Well… what are the nature of his prayers?” Aziraphale asks politely, gesturing toward the scroll.

 

He’s rather sure no one but Sandalphon and the Almighty are meant to see documented prayers, but he’s glad when Sandalphon decides to hand it over for him to look at.

 

 

****1\. Single prayer of the day, spoken internally, made by Crawley, Demon, on November 4th, 4004 BC, 2:36pm; location Eastern Gate of Eden, Earth;** **

 

 _Oh,_ **_do_ ** _let him get away with that one. Can’t imagine how You think I’m going to bully around that sweetheart for the rest of our lives - why couldn’t You have sent down Gabriel? Or someone_ **_really_ ** _annoying? Aziraphale is a fine Angel - some of Your best work, I’d dare say. Intentions as pure as dew drops on rose petals. Don’t give him too much grief about the sword. He was doing what he thought to be kindest. Disgusting, but perfectly in line with celestial mercy, if You ask me. Not that You do. Or would. Anyway, don’t be too hard on him, please? He’ll punish himself worse than Your lot would, too. World’s barely started, and he’s already got guilt. Sweet thing, that Angel. Forgive him._

 

Aziraphale always did find it odd that God never brought up the sword again.

 

Perhaps She listened to Crowley? Perhaps Aziraphale was granted clemency through the grace of Crowley?

 

Blushing through his hairline, Aziraphale glances up at Sandalphon, who looks bored at best, and simply tells him, “he rattles on like that in almost all of them. He prays in his head, see? Doesn’t even catch himself doing it, most of the time. That first one was pretty intentional, though.”

 

Hoping to spot Crowley’s inner-monologues that weren’t meant to be prayers, he pulls at the scroll, eyes eagerly zipping across lines - it’s truly a baffling amount of prayer for a Demon to have unintentionally done.

 

As he passes phrases like, “well, these are certainly harrowing times - hope he’s safe,” “help him find his ring, he loves it so, and I’m not good at finding things as well as I am at losing them,” “make that cologne available again - don’t know who makes it, don’t care, just know he likes it,” “oh, God, oh, please let him be alright, please, please, please,” “I hope he gets some rest this decade, he’s earned it more than most,” “do let me see that Angel soon - it’s been so long since I last saw him,” and more, more, more, Aziraphale manages to ask, “Sandalphon?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“Crowley… he is unlike other Demons,” Aziraphale states, something caught in his chest, “This is… just… he has his wings, still, and he’s… profoundly powerful. I’ve witnessed him stop Time, itself. That all of his prayers were received in full, all these millennia, and seemingly answered, I have to ask… did Crowley go by another name, as an Angel? Before he Fell? Was he… important? Important enough that the Almighty still keeps him in a bit of Her grace?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Sandalphon answers, looking nonplussed, though Aziraphale has never wanted Sandalphon to speak more on anything, ever, “He was an Archangel before the Fall.”

 

His foot giving a sudden stamp, Aziraphale’s hands squeeze the sides of the scroll, and his throat tightens, energy in him whizzing about like fireworks, “he… he was an Arch - how did he not tell me?”

 

“He doesn’t remember.”

 

This gives Aziraphale pause.

 

“What do you mean?” he asks, “What do you mean he doesn’t remember?”

 

“His memories were wiped, and altered,” Sandalphon explains, “He no longer holds that station, and so the Lord thought it best he not try taking credit for things no longer under his purview. But, according to the records, he aided in the crafting of the Heavens, and the universe. At the time, he was gifted the name Raphael.”

 

“He - !” Aziraphale jumps in his seat, excitable as ever, “Are you telling me that _Crowley_ \- _Crowley_ , the Demon I’ve known for over _six thousand years_ , was the original Archangel _Raphael_? Healer, Guardian, and one of the most powerful Angels to _stand before God_? _Crowley_?”

 

“Well, he wasn’t _Crowley_ back then,” Sandalphon says glibly, “Names are gifts, and titles. When he was stripped of his status, he was no longer Raphael, and that title was granted to someone who would -”

 

“He questioned the Ineffable Plan, didn’t he?” Aziraphale wonders, suddenly lost in a spiral of terrible thoughts, “He questioned Her, right to Her face. Good Lord, that man has no filter. Probably never did! He had a seat with God, Herself, and questioned Her.”

 

 _Unbelievable_ , Aziraphale thinks, although, on the contrary, it is quite believable that Crowley, the Demon Aziraphale has known so long, would have audience with God, and feel compelled to question Her authority.

 

“This was long before the Earth was even made yet, Aziraphale,” Sandalphon brushes him off, “It’s hardly worth mentioning. He held the place of Raphael for a short time, and when he Fell, he became Crawley. Then he changed his name a few times, but Crowley seems to have stuck, and here we are. Are you satisfied yet? Will you fix this mess?”

 

“No! Wait - I - no, I’m…” Aziraphale struggles, looking down at the parchment, “I can’t keep this, can I?”

 

“No.”

 

“Damn,” he whispers, gazing at it, wanting it for more than just reference - he knows Crowley cares about him, but having such undeniable proof is so moving, and he’s reluctant to part with it; “... do you have any particular favorites?”

 

Sandalphon stares drily at him so long, Aziraphale begins to regret asking, but then the other Angel says stoically, “go to prayer nine-hundred-eighty-two-thousand, eight-hundred and sixty-four.”

 

It takes two full minutes of rolling the scroll back up to get there, but Aziraphale does find it.

 

**982,864. Single prayer of the day, spoken internally, made by Anthony J. Crowley, Demon, on February 8th, 1557 AD, 5:17pm; location West corner of Wiltonn’s Street, London, England, Earth;**

 

 _Dear_ **_God_ ** _, he_ **_senses love_** _? He can_ **_sense_ ** _that type of thing? He can_ **_sense love_** _? Why has he never_ **_said_ ** _that before??? Oh, God,_ **_please_ ** _don’t let him sense it. Don’t let him sense_ **_me_** _. Has he sensed me this_ **_entire time_** _? Jesus_ **_fucking_ ** _Christ. Does he_ **_already_ ** _know? Is it_ **_me_ ** _he’s sensing? Oh, ‘loves this time of year,’ does he? Is he having me on? Please, please,_ **_please_ ** _don’t let him sense me. Can stand a lot, Aziraphale, but he’d draw the line at a Demon. He’d never want near me again. He’s all I’ve got worth having. Don’t let him sense me. Please, don't._

 

This one requires three read-throughs before Aziraphale is even remotely confident he understands what he’s read.

 

“Go on. Read the next one,” Sandalphon directs him, “Didn’t sleep all night. Miracled himself across the world, trying to get closer to Her.”

 

Aziraphale reads down to the next prayer, and rather wishes he had a photographic memory, so he could skim all of these prayers, and revisit them for later meditation.

 

But he only has the now, he supposes. He was never meant to know these prayers, anyway. He ought to count himself lucky.

 

**982,865. First prayer of the day, spoken externally, made by Anthony J. Crowley, Demon, on February 9th, 1557 AD, 2:56am; location The Negev, Tel Be’er Sheva, Israel, Earth;**

 

“Lord, Mother, King of the Universe, if You still hear me at all, please… I don’t know how else to contact You. I don’t know if You can hear me, or see me better out here, or… I don’t get to _feel_ You anymore, You know? You know that, of course. You know everything. You just… You left this gaping, angry, burned out hole in me, and I’ve been starving ever since. _Starving_ , You hear? I’ve met other Angels, and they’re not like him.

 

They’re not like Aziraphale. Aziraphale is special, he’s - he’s - well, he’s certainly my favorite Angel, but he’s more, he’s my favorite _being_ , and You _know_ how much I love the okapi, but I’d trade them _all_ for more time with Aziraphale. Just a single lunch more, in fact. All the okapi in the world for a single lunch with the fellow. That’s how much I like that bugger, and listen, I… when I get close to him, close enough that I can see all those glassy, white specks in the blue of his eyes, and how pale his eyelashes are, and I can almost, just _almost_ see his wings… whatever You took from me, I feel a little bit come back again. He mends me… he _mends_ me.

 

He can’t know how I feel. I can’t… I can’t have him finding me out. Lovely, and clever, he really is, but daft as well, in a lot of ways, and whenever I’m feeling particularly fond of him, he’s always describing these ‘flashes of love,’ or ‘bursts,’ and… he hasn’t figured out it’s me. I need it to stay that way. I Fell.

 

Your light, Your love was stripped from me, I lost everything, and I’m rebuilding, but I… if I lose him, Lord… if I lose him because of all this disgusting goodness I can’t stop, bubbling up in me around him, then… well, I’d rather drink holy water than consider it.

 

You’d think that a bloke with nothing left to lose wouldn’t feel so threatened, but I’m petrified You’ll take him from me. You’ll give him a stroke of genius, and he’ll finally see me, and all that wiggly stuff he makes me feel, and he’ll run from me, and I’ll be alone again, alone the way I’d been when You dropped me, and I can’t do it again. I can’t Fall again. Not from him. So, please - if it’s all You ever show me mercy for again, please, keep me off his radar. Please. One Fall was enough. I swear it.”

 

Fingers shaking a bit at his lips, Aziraphale looks back up at Sandalphon, and Sandalphon reaches out to take the scroll back, telling him, “She listened. She said it was one of very few times She saw the Archangel in him again, saw all he could’ve been, had he just trusted Her. So, She made his love for you very nearly impossible to feel. Which is probably why you seem so shocked now.”

 

“I -” Aziraphale begins, thinking he’ll have some good excuse for his slack jaw, and wide, shining eyes, but he can’t come up with anything, “I…”

 

“Yeah, I thought so,” Sandalphon cuts him off, “Listen - after a while, She got soft on him. She said his suffering, his penance, that it was all to be rewarded. Even if you never loved him back.”

 

“I - !”

 

“Listen,” Sandalphon snips, still rolling the scroll up, “I told you, I don’t care. I don’t even want to know. All you need to know at the end of this, is that you need to close curtains with Crowley here, for good, set him loose, or give him what he wants. She can’t control who, what, or if you love romantically - if you don’t want him, She’s got someone up to bat next.”

 

With great affront, Aziraphale scowls, “ _excuse_ me? Up to _bat_? There’s someone _else_?”

 

“Not yet,” Sandalphon tells him calmly, “Hanael has been reassigned to London, though, just in case.”

 

“Hanael? The Archangel?”

 

“The same,” Sandalphon asserts, “The Almighty was seeking audience with Her most influential, and most loving Angels, and told them what was needed; someone for Crowley to love. Any Archangel Raphael has to have a soul of a Healer, you see, and so Crowley, in his essence, cannot rest until the part of him that lost Her love is healed by another’s. He’s a restless Demon, more than the others, and She says it’s because he’s seeking to share his soul with another - unconditional love. He happens to be fond of the romantic variety, and as soon as She said that, Hanael volunteered their services.”

 

Defensive, Aziraphale replies, “but I’ve only just learned of this! It’s not fair! You’re sending Hanael down already, and I barely get time to sort out if I -”

 

“Do you love Crowley?”

 

Instantly, Aziraphale’s mouth shuts tightly, things he’d never admitted to, even in his most solitary hours, start banging at the back of his teeth. His ears are burning.

 

“You see, She visited him two times in the last six thousand years, asked him twice if he loved you, though She didn’t call you by name - simply hopped onto whatever monologue he was having with himself - and each time, he said ‘yes.’ No hesitation at all. He’s stuck on you. Your his first love, and you’ve been his first love for nearly six thousand years. The pining has _got_ to stop.”

 

There’s a deeply troubled pause, wherein Aziraphale is cursing himself inwardly for not being as daring, nor nearly as proud as Crowley, and Sandalphon takes pity on him.

 

“Listen, you’re not obligated to feel anything for him, Aziraphale,” Sandalphon assures him, making eye-contact again, “If you don’t love Crowley that way, that’s fine. Hanael believes themself very able to fall in love with Crowley, and to complete his healing. And perhaps you could keep Crowley as a… friend. Or whatever it is you call a Demon associate. In any case, it’s not your job to love Crowley, She just can’t take anymore of these damned prayers coming in, all soppy, and nearly obsessive about you. So, that’s all. If you forfeit Crowley, Hanael is here, strangely eager to be of service, and no harm is done. If _you_ prefer to be Crowley’s champion, however, then I urge you to make the decision soon.”

 

Just as Sandalphon is standing to leave, Aziraphale stands as well, reaching out hesitantly; Sandalphon pauses, and stares.

 

“What… what was his last prayer for me?”

 

Sighing, Sandalphon answers, “it was more of a threat, made four days ago in the afternoon. Something along the lines of, ‘give him his banana pudding - they were out last time we came here for lunch, and I will be thrice damned if they’re out again.’”

 

Aziraphale smiles despite his heart, stomach, throat all still a mess, head spinning around, knees weak. Even his toes tickle.

 

Sandalphon regards him strangely.

 

“I don’t understand any of this myself, you know. I don’t find it as contemptuous as most of the other Archangels, but I can admit, I don’t get it.”

 

“I know,” Aziraphale tells him with a smile, wringing his hands, “I don’t always understand it either. Thank you, Sandalphon. For your guidance, and - everything. Really.”

 

Appeased, Sandalphon nods, begins to walk away, then turns back, and says, “strictly speaking, you don’t need to know this, and if there’s ever follow-up, _I_ never said this to you, but, when this place burned down?” - he gestures at the surrounding bookshop, then looks back at Aziraphale, “Crowley cursed all of Heaven, and Hell for it. Accused everyone of having taken you from him. He fell to his knees right on these floors, as if in prayer, and he mourned you for all the universe to suffer. His cries were so tortured, despairing, and so driven by the compassion of Spirit, they reached the very ears of God, Herself.”

 

“Oh…” Aziraphale breathes out, blinking glassiness out of his eyes.

 

“Indeed,” Sandalphon agrees, “Seems to have always had a flair for the dramatic, that one, but that bit? The screaming, and crying, and cursing all that’s ever been for taking you so unjustly? That was genuine. Moved Her to tears. She can’t reclaim him, and She knows he wouldn’t want that anyway - he’d make a bloody terrible Angel with his attitudes nowadays, but if any Demon has Her favor, it’s him. Just thought… if I had a decision to make, like yours, I’d want to know that bit.”

 

Aziraphale agrees.

 

Then, Sandalphon is gone.


	2. I'd Lie If I Told You How I Felt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley pines loudly, Aziraphale is oblivious, they're both dramatic idiots. Enjoy pls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever people ask me how I knew I loved my husband, I tell them what I have Crowley here talk about. <3

Aziraphale doesn’t mean for a full week to pass before he calls to arrange an afternoon with Crowley - he just has a lot to consider, and it’s all very sudden, after all. He needs time to gather himself. He's never been one to rush - Crowley's the fast one, not him.

 

Besides, it’s one thing to know you love another, and something altogether different to pursue something meaningful with them.

 

Aziraphale is a _being_ of love - he’s an Angel, he’s _made_ of love - so, _of course_ , he loves Crowley. Telling that apart from being _in_ love with Crowley is proving difficult to decipher, however.

 

And the stakes are so very high - if he only loves Crowley as all Angels love all things, then Crowley would be heartbroken to learn of it after committing himself to Aziraphale in a romantically meaningful way, and Aziraphale would hate to misunderstand Crowley, or to be misunderstood.

 

The last thing Aziraphale wants in all this universe is to hurt Crowley.

 

If one is in love, how can one tell? How is it different from all other love? How is Crowley so sure? Didn’t Crowley ever doubt?

 

While it would make more sense for Crowley to have doubted his love for Aziraphale (he has repeated, openly, doubted _God_ , after all), at some point, Aziraphale somehow doesn’t think Crowley did.

 

There’s a surety about Crowley, a confidence in everything he says, and does - whatever revelation he had that granted him the clarity, to know he was in love with Aziraphale - he probably never wavered from it. He has hard opinions, and beliefs, and he sticks by them, Hell or high water. 

 

Probably sheer stubbornness has kept him in love with Aziraphale all six-thousand some-odd years.

 

And here, Aziraphale has all he needs to know now, about Crowley, how Crowley feels about him, what he’s willing to sacrifice, and suffer just to be near Aziraphale, what he’s willing to do, to stop, to wait for, to push for - and it’s soul-quivering in its sincerity and beauty, it's awe-inspiring, deeply flattering - but if Aziraphale openly returns those feelings to Crowley, does it mean Eternity?

 

Aziraphale doesn’t rightly know if he’s ready to face all Eternity as Crowley’s… husband? He isn’t even sure what he’d be to Crowley. He’d never had to consider it before.

 

He tosses some bread to the ducks, inwardly lamenting his conundrum, but then hears the click of familiar boots nearing.

 

Instantaneously, he lights up, stands straighter, and smiles broadly at Crowley, approaching, as always, with ridiculously swaying hips, and a dangerously charming smirk.

 

“Aziraphale. Afternoon.”

 

“Good afternoon, Crowley,” Aziraphale greets, smiling lovingly, sparkles in his eyes, “How are you?”

 

“Doing well, actually,” Crowley answers, staring down at the ducks with less disdain than usual, “And yourself?”

 

“What do you have with you?” Aziraphale asks, noting the paper bag in Crowley’s hand.

 

Crowley smiles at it, then back at Aziraphale, “did you know there’s a new bakery opening up just a few blocks down from your shop? It’s an Angel running the place - they were making Devil’s Food Cake!”

 

Aziraphale’s blood-stuff boils within a nanosecond, and it reddens his cheeks like tomatoes.

 

“You should’ve warned me your lot was sending more down!” Crowley laughs, “Hanael is their name - masculine looking, but I didn’t want to make any assumptions. Know them?”

 

“As I understand, Hanael approves of neutral, or male pronouns,” Aziraphale answers with clenched teeth, “But he’s not from _my_ lot. _They’re_ not my lot. _Not_ anymore, and never again. _You’re_ my lot. _You_ , alright?”

 

Crowley’s left brow pops up over his sun lens, and he replies, “aye, aye, Angel. What’s got a bee in your bonnet today, then? Hanael an arse, or something? Seemed nice enough.”

 

“You _spoke_ to them?” Aziraphale inquires, alarmed.

 

“Had to,” Crowley insists, “I felt all that Angelic presence, and there’s a new shop no one seems to find strange even though it popped up overnight, so obviously I thought it was work related, and I had to let them know a Demon also fancied these particular streets. I introduced myself, that’s all.”

 

“Well?” Aziraphale presses anxiously, “What was it like? How did it go?”

 

Looking even more baffled, Crowley leans back on the rail keeping them from falling into the pond, and says, “it went fine. Hanael offered me a choice of whatever I’d like, on the house - I insisted on paying, though; doesn’t do to have Angelic hand-outs at just a first meeting - they gave me a generous slice of cake, and told me they look forward to our work relationship. That’s all.”

 

Aziraphale’s contempt must be apparent now, because Crowley makes a face usually reserved for observing dangerous wildlife, and asks, “are they a prick? You can tell me, of course - I’ll crack half of all their egg deliveries if you like.”

 

Aziraphale can’t tell what shocks Crowley more; that he was good to make the offer in the first place, or that Aziraphale is very obviously considering it.

 

“Angel, they do something to you, or something? I’ll burn the whole place down - you know I will.”

 

Warmth and constriction bonding in Aziraphale’s chest at Crowley’s loyalty, Aziraphale calms (slightly), and eventually responds, “no - I - no. No, it’s alright, dear, thank you. Hanael… he isn’t one of the Archangels I know well.”

 

“Oh, I se - hold up - wait -”

 

Aziraphale smacks his hand over his mouth just as he’s said it, but it’s too late.

 

Crowley looks at him incredulously, “that was an _Arch_ angel!? I just gave cocky shit to an _Archangel_? Aziraphale! Some fucking warning would've been appreciated!”

 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Aziraphale rushes, flapping his hands about, “I - look, this is all I know, okay? Hanael is an Archangel, they’re associated with the bringing of joy, sparking of intuition, acts of nature, appreciation of beauty, and the natural pleasures of humans. They like shifting bodies - most humans have depicted them as a woman, but they’re almost always written as ‘he,’ in scriptures. Hanael has never spoken, to anyone, I believe, about their preferences. I don’t know that they have any - I think they’re quite fluid. Anyway, that’s all I know. I’ve never worked with Hanael before, that’s the extent of my knowledge.”

 

“So, you’ve no idea why they sent down an Archangel to London, right where I like to get coffee on my way to visit the book shop?” Crowley asks disbelievingly.

 

All it takes is the briefest pause, and Crowley already knows Aziraphale is preparing to lie.

 

Crowley is preemptively, and very evidently, offended by the not-yet-told lie.

 

“What?” Aziraphale shoots.

 

Gaping at him, Crowley gesticulates back and forth between them, shouting “‘ _what_?’ _Me_ , ‘what?’ ‘What,’ at _me_? ‘What,’ at _you_! What are you not telling me?”

 

“Nothing!” Aziraphale denies, much too high-pitched to be honest, “ _I’m_ not - _you’re_ the one - frankly, I - and _if_ \- but there's _nothing_ \- ...oh, dear…”

 

Whatever it was Aziraphale was beginning, cutting off, and restarting, he gives up on. He trails off, at a loss for words, and worries at the sides of his hair, then the cuffs of his coat jacket; a nervous tic he rarely has.

 

Typically, Crowley would laugh at such a display of confused, embarrassed stammering, but he seems genuinely upset this day. Not at all amused.

 

“Fine,” Crowley says waspishly, “Don’t tell me. Whatever. I’ll see you later.”

 

He’s just turned around to leave when Aziraphale grabs his blazer sleeve, and exclaims, “no! Don’t go!”

 

Crowley glances at Aziraphale’s clutching hand, then up to Aziraphale’s face, and he mutters, “I thought we were past this. I thought we didn’t hide things from each other anymore, Aziraphale.”

 

Shamefaced, Aziraphale pinches his lips, nods, and admits, “you’re right. You’re right, really, I apologize, I’m sorry. It’s just difficult to explain. I… I need to ask you something. Something very personal, important, and you have every right to keep it to yourself, or not talk about it at all, just… anyway, I need… I need to know… oh, will you just come have lunch with me? There’s a perfectly sunny spot, just the right amount of shine and shade, it’s so close by, and I’d so prefer to sit comfortably with you for this.”

 

For a few beats, Aziraphale truly isn’t sure if Crowley will join him, or not.

 

Thankfully, though reluctantly, Crowley does follow Aziraphale, who Miracles together a luxurious picnic in his chosen spot. It’s a bit grandiose, but Crowley doesn’t remark on the display - he must chalk it up to Aziraphale’s nerves, and once the champagne is poured, and the scones are split, and there’s a sigh of comfortable relief from Aziraphale, Crowley opens his mouth again.

 

“Well? I’m still in the proverbial dark over here, Aziraphale. Some help?”

 

“Oh,” Aziraphale starts, staring down into his lap, “I… right. Okay. Right. I just… have you...  I need to know if you… have you… have you ever been…”

 

“Been _what_?” Crowley prompts with a growl, irritated beyond patience.

 

“Been in love! Have you ever been in love, Crowley?” Aziraphale spits out in a rush, sloshing his drink about as he gestures sharply, “I need to know if you’ve ever been in love - and not in that way you love Italian leather, or Swedish chocolates, but proper love, like romantic love, for another being - and, if you have been in love, how did you _know_? How did you _know_ you were in love? How can one tell?”

 

There’s a resounding silence for a good, long while, and when Aziraphale is brave enough to look up, it’s to find that Crowley isn’t even looking at him.

 

Balanced on his elbows, leaning back, Crowley is staring up at the canopy of leaves above them, face carefully blank.

 

“It’s not the type of thing a being studies, Aziraphale,” Crowley starts, voice softer than Aziraphale imagined it in this scenario, “You don’t know it. You feel it.”

 

Watching how the patches of sunlight shift over Crowley’s handsome face, Aziraphale presses, “but… how do you know you feel it?”

 

“Listen - I don’t like getting all… gross, saccharine. Like this. So, take notes, cause I’m not talking about this again, okay?”

 

Aziraphale nods, a notepad and pen miraculously appearing in his hands, ready, and looking studious.

 

Crowley rolls his eyes at it, muttering something that sounds like “such a dork,” but then tells Aziraphale, “listen… no one knows… about forever, you know? No one can know what the future holds, really. Bets are never safe, but some things are worth gambling on. Humans always talk about how it’s the things in life they didn’t do that they most regret, right? Not the things they did do.”

 

“I’m not following,” Aziraphale whispers, feeling a bit ashamed.

 

Crowley shakes his head, dismissing Aziraphale’s shame, “if I were a thing that perished like humans, I’d like for the one I love to die first. That’s what I’d like.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“It makes sense, a bit, just listen,” Crowley continues, still staring up at the leaves, moving his hands about vaguely, “I’d like that, because I'd like to be there. Be there to ease them into it, make sure that every last second is so full of love, and peace, and comfort, they’ll feel it until they can’t feel anything else, ever again.”

 

Aziraphale’s eyes widen, and his hand stops moving over the paper as he watches Crowley’s expression turn distant, and reverent, “I’d like to hold them, make sure they feel that I’m there with them, through it all, to the very end. If they want the last thing they ever taste to be Peach and Mint tea, I want to be the one to nurse it to them, and if the last thing they ever want to hear is string instruments, I’ll conjure up an orchestra, and if the last thing they ever want to smell is that sweet smell cats have behind the ears, I’ll wrangle a cat close enough to smell. If the last thing they ever wanted to see was a smile, I’d smile through it all as well.”

 

His voice goes softer, smoother, as he adds, “and if the last thing they ever want to feel is a hand in theirs, I’ll hold their hand, or pet their hair, or kiss their lips, and if the last thing they ever want to know is that all the years they spent on this Earth made them so spectacularly, uniquely loved, I’ll pledge myself to them over, and over, until I know that I did as well as I could by them. Life, and death. From the beginning, to the end. I know what I feel is love, because it’s more powerful than anything else - even the pain of losing that person I love, see?”

 

Crowley stares at his glass of champagne, twirls the stems of the glass a little, and finishes, “that they know I’d be happy - so happy - to… be of service, to give my love, til the very end… that means the most to me. Eternity seems a dreadful thing, really, _except_ when I consider that person, because if Eternity means them… then, I never have to say that goodbye. I’ll be ready for it, always, cause nothing’s really meant to last forever, but, Aziraphale…”

 

They finally meet eyes again.

 

“It’d be at the cost of all of me. To say goodbye. I’d gladly do it first, though, just so the one I love wouldn’t have to do it first. I’d be honored to do it first. I'd see it done right, no matter what it cost me. So, if that isn’t love, if all that, in the marrow of my bones isn’t enough to prove it’s love, I don’t know what is. Sound like love to you?”

 

A highly unexpected tear rolls down Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley smiles placidly at him.

 

“I… Crowley, why, I’ve never… never heard anything quite like that.”

 

“Bit macabre,” Crowley confesses, shrugging, “But it’s at the end of things that you know what you want, I guess. It’s not about wanting to show how much pain you can endure for that person, though - don’t mistake that - it’s about… it’s about how happy you are to suffer the worst with them, so long as it’s with them. That’s it, I suppose. So, gamble. What’s the worst that happens? You suffer gladly? Glad you had the time you did? Glad you can get whisked away, recycled back into the universe, happy you spent your life how you did? That’s what a safe bet is, in a world without safe bets.”

 

“Oh, Crowley…”

 

Aziraphale’s appreciation for Crowley’s sweet, candidness is not missed on the Demon; he smiles gently for a moment more, then he goes back to his casual smirking, and demands more food and drink, and to never speak of love to him again, as he’d almost lost his appetite. It's a boldfaced lie, but Aziraphale doesn't call him out on it. 

 

The rest of the afternoon is spent in commonplace conversation, some normalcy regained somewhere between drinks four and seven, and although Aziraphale can sense some sadness at the end of the picnic, he doesn’t connect it to Crowley right away.

 

He even assumes it must be coming from somewhere else, because the picnic is so lovely, he doesn't think it could possibly be coming from Crowley.

 

“So - this Hanael Archangel - not an arse?”

 

“No, I’m sure they’re lovely,” Aziraphale tells Crowley with a smile, “Not as lovely as you, though, dear, so don’t fret.”

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

Smiling more broadly, Aziraphale simply says, “never.”

 

When they part ways, Aziraphale is sorry to see Crowley go; he wanted to invite Crowley back to the book shop for more drinks, and more debate about dolphins, and possibly to bare his soul to Crowley, but Crowley leaves before the invitation can be naturally made. The window of opportunity passes.

 

Aziraphale supposes it will have to wait for another time.

 

He tries not to fret.

 

That night, while valiantly trying not to fret over Crowley, he’s revisiting a first edition Thoreau (the binding is still in remarkably good condition), and his thoughts wander towards Crowley’s tone from earlier that day.

 

Book open, but ignored, Aziraphale stares out the window from his couch, watches traffic pass by, and thinks almost absently that, if everything were to come to a screeching halt, he’d like to hold Crowley through it too.

 

He thinks that if they perished the way humans do, that he’d get Crowley that Balsamic Sweet Onion Jam he so likes, and spoon feed it to him, if it were the last thing Crowley could eat. He knows Crowley’s partial to the smell of sage and sandalwood, and he’d find the richest incense out there to burn, so it could be the last perfumes he ever smelled, if it were what Crowley wanted in his final moments.

 

If the last thing Crowley ever wanted to see was someone stumbling, and cracking the cover of their expensive mobile phones (as he is often so fond of seeing happen), Aziraphale would have it happen for Crowley’s serpentine eyes before they shut forever. If the last thing he ever wanted to hear was a terribly dirty joke, Aziraphale would make one for him too - his delivery would be awful, he’s sure, but that might make Crowley happier, even.

 

And if the last thing Crowley wanted to feel was a kiss, Aziraphale thinks he’d be quite honored to bestow it.

 

In fact, Aziraphale is quite sure he's the only being he'd want kissing Crowley, at the End of All Things. Or ever.


	3. You Know I'm Supposed To Be With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets bonked on the head with books bc he deserves it

The next day, Aziraphale is enjoying a strong cup of tea, bracing himself for the morning, looking out the store front of his shop when something smacks the back of his head.

 

“Ow! What in the blazes -”

 

Sandalphon is standing behind him, a few feet away, an arsenal of books tucked under his arm, looking livid.

 

It's an unexpected sight, to say the least.

 

“Sandalphon! What in the Heavens do you think you’re doing?”

 

Punctuating every word with the throwing of a book at Aziraphale’s head, he shouts, “you - daft - fool! - Crowley’s - sent - his - last - prayer!”

 

Ducking here, and there, covering his head with his arms, Aziraphale wonders back, “what are you talking about!? Isn’t that what you all wanted?!”

 

“No, you git!” Sandalphon shouts, “She wanted him to be happy! You’ve ruined the whole plan!”

 

“Well, _how_ am I to have done that!?” Aziraphale demands to know, straightening up, and brushing off his vest.

 

“Prayer one-million seven-hundred-twenty-five-thousand, six-hundred and ninety,” Sandalphon recites, still fuming, “He stood outside a Church last night, and said, out loud, ‘make Hanael worthy of him. Make Aziraphale happy. Don’t think I could ever bother you for more. Thank you for it all, even the bad bits,’ and then he drove off to bloody Sussex, to drape himself dramatically over gravestones in a local cemetery, listen to terrible music obnoxiously loudly, count stars like a bloody child, and drink wine until he passed out!”

 

At the very clear display of confusion on Aziraphale’s face, Sandalphon glares, and expounds angrily, “you dunce! He thinks you’re in love with Hanael - did you make a fuss about him?! He was meant for Crowley! You didn’t make a move, so Hanael was sent, and what do you do, then? You somehow convince Crowley you’re in love with Hanael!? Hanael's down here for less than forty hours, and you - you! - you imbecile! - you manage to muck it all up!”

 

“Oh… oh dear.”

 

It takes a moment, but the dots do come together, finally, for Aziraphale.

 

They met in the park, then he saw the bag from the bakery in Crowley’s hand, showed clear irritation (Crowley must have mistaken his possessiveness over _him_ , to be over Hanael), all but shouted at Crowley for interacting with Hanael (must’ve thought Aziraphale was discouraging Crowley from Tempting Hanael for himself), and then inquired about being in love!

 

Oh, it’s so damning in retrospect - poor Crowley, with no idea why an Archangel is suddenly in London, can’t imagine they’ve been stationed there for _him_ , so he jumps to the conclusion that Hanael must have been sent for _Aziraphale_. Then, of course, Aziraphale gets caught in a lie, gets caught withholding information _about_ Hanael, eventually breaks, and then shifts gears into talking about pursuing romantic love without ever changing focus from Hanael, onto Crowley…

 

How their evening ended with budding sadness, and an unsatisfactory parting, suddenly makes much more sense to Aziraphale, and he’s flushed with shame.

 

“Oh, bloody - I see, I see what I did, I’m - oh dear, I’m so sorry, it’s just a slight miscommunication -”

 

“ _Now_ he gets it! Heaven and Earth, Aziraphale! The lengths we went to! And now he’s gone all stupidly self-pitying, won’t bloody even look at Hanael cause he thinks _you_ want them, and all bloody - fix it! Now!”

 

“Okay!” Aziraphale acquiesces, as another book is launched at his head.

 

“Fix! It!”

 

“Alright, alright!” Aziraphale shouts back.

 

A single book manages to bounce off the top of his head before Sandalphon is gone in a flash, again, and Aziraphale is left with a bruise on his forehead, and ego.


	4. To Be So, To Be So

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's resolve solidifies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this was only supposed to be 4 chapters, but this last scene is getting so long, it's just gotta be its own chapter, so seE YOU ALL AGAIN SOON WITH THE LAST INSTALLMENT <3
> 
> Also, featuring Crowley singing drunkenly and loudly to Queen's 'Who Wants to Live Forever,' because he's That Bitch.

Aziraphale takes an uncharacteristically long time getting ready to find Crowley in Sussex - not because he doesn’t feel the flame lit from under him (or from above, as it were), but because he wants to look particularly handsome for it. It's a rite of passage, almost, really - it's not as if he's going to be in the habit of doing these things, saying these things, to anyone else, ever again - he wants a little ceremony to it.

 

He’s about to profess undying, romantic love for a notably fashionable, and profoundly caring Demon, after all. He thinks decorum is called for.

 

He also may be just a touch avoidant, as he has no idea what he’s actually going to say.

 

Also, Hanael, as memory serves, is a very androgynous, and beautiful Angel, and if Aziraphale is to be honest with himself (which he is always meant to be, though he’s fallen short a few times in the past), he’s just a tiny bit insecure. He has read before that 'comparison is the thief of joy,' and he knows Crowley likes this corporeal form Aziraphale's taken, but still, he doubts himself.

 

After all, Crowley is simply so delectable looking, he’s sinful just to look at - oh, Aziraphale remembers being in the Bastille and Crowley arriving, dressed so well (and for a peasant!), and he could barely contain himself! Crowley always looked handsome for the times, always shifting, evolving, trying to find the best versions of himself.

 

Aziraphale looks in the mirror, and wonders idly if he really is enough for Crowley.

 

He's not fashionable, doesn't keep up with the times, so to speak, more than he absolutely needs to.

 

He doesn’t shift, and evolve the way Crowley does.

 

Maybe Crowley deserves more.

 

Maybe he’s too slow for Crowley. Maybe he’s too boring, or maybe he’s too serious. Maybe he’s too soft, or maybe he’s too nice.

 

Maybe he’s not all Crowley’s hoped he’ll be, maybe he can't at all be what Crowley's hoping he'll become.

 

And what if that is the case, then? What if he leaps for Crowley, dives blindly into this commitment, in good faith, only to be met with sadness, and disappointment, when he’s not all Crowley hoped he’d be?

 

What if he’s not all Crowley has prayed for him to be?

 

He’s just considering ignoring Sandalphon’s orders, and hiding in his bookshop, away from Crowley, the entire spectrum of Earthly emotions, this whole mess, _and_ his present angsting, when he hears it;

 

# Aziraphale.

 

A bright light descends on him, and he freezes where he stands.

 

“L-Lord?”

 

# There is no more time to waste, Aziraphale. If you want him, it is now, or never. His hopes are withering away to nothing, his faith in love dwindles, and he cannot hear Me anymore. End your doubts. Love is greater than doubt. Go to him.

 

“How should I find him?” Aziraphale asks, instantly, and sincerely worried that time is running out for Crowley and him, like a great wave is coming for them both, and they must dive under the water at just the right moment, to move through the wave lest it crush them when it tumbles.

 

The intensity of this self-imposed pressure is new when the Lord’s voice graces Aziraphale, but he still isn’t sure where that internal pressure is coming _from_.

 

It is probably God working through him, he thinks.

 

Perhaps it’s just the Lord’s way of showing him that She knows how long Aziraphale has loved Crowley, and that She is tired of waiting for their happiness to come.

 

Maybe it’s meant to hush his insecurities.

 

Maybe it’s meant to be whatever it is he needs it to be, to get to Crowley, and fulfill Crowley’s prayers.

 

# He is enmeshed in your soul, Aziraphale. You will feel him when he is near. Fly. I will grant you invisibility to human eyes, and privacy even from Me, when you do find him.

 

“Thank You,” Aziraphale gasps, touching at his chest, blinking up into the blinding light, “I am a fool sometimes, I know, but I… I thank You. For all Your love, and wisdom. And Your gifts. I do not always understand You, but, truly, I trust You with all my soul.”

 

# I know, Aziraphale. I always know. Now, go to him. He needs you.

 

In a blink, Aziraphale finds himself on the roof of his shop, his wings stretching out behind him, grand, aglow, and so free. It feels natural, and good, to be like this again, in this form again - he even thinks that, next he finds the time and place to look for a swordsmith, he may just have one made.

 

And despite his fear moving forward, he smiles, because love, in all forms, is an act of God. It is a miracle, to be cherished, and honored, and he thinks himself a fool now, for having waited so long to celebrate his love for Crowley.

 

She wants his happiness above all else, She is Mother to all, particularly close to Aziraphale, more than any given human, anyway.

 

He knows that She cares about him, and knows too that She cares about Crowley, Fallen though he may be.

 

It would be easy to say that Aziraphale sauntered slowly downward into love with Crowley over the years, because he likely did, without noticing, but he recalls, quite clearly, the moment he tripped and fell into love with the Demon - the moment he _knew_.

 

When the Church collapsed around them, and he’d thought he’d lost all his books, all those rare editions of prophecies, Crowley stood, handsome as ever, and handed him his cache, ‘just a Demonic miracle of his own.’

 

Their hands brushed, in the exchange, and it was like spiraling lighting had started vining, twisting up and around the tower of his spine - he never really did look at Crowley the same again.

 

Their hands brushed, and he felt something so pure, so good, so bone-deep, so everlasting - oh, it’s still dancing in his blood now, just at the remembrance of it!

 

She gave him love, and true, it trickled in over time, snuck its way past his innermost barriers, right into his soul, and that took several millennia to acknowledge, but then, suddenly, he tripped and fell, stumbled clumsily right into love with Crowley, right there, right that night, and he’s not even breathed a word of it to the one that most deserves to hear it.

 

No more dilly-dallying.

 

He’s determined to set things right.

 

Hanael may be an Angel - an Archangel - eager to spread their love, their kindness, perhaps they are even truly, sincerely interested in Crowley as the unique, captivating Demon he is, but Aziraphale cannot imagine anyone loving Crowley more than he does, and has. All love, from any other, could only pale in comparison, Aziraphale is positive.

 

Hanael would be a poor prize for the Demon Crowley, and all the love he deserves.

 

But Aziraphale knows he can rise to the occasion. He knows it, in the most beautiful parts of his spirit - he knows he can love Crowley like no other ever could, like no other ever should, because Crowley is _for_ him, and _he_ is for Crowley.

 

Aziraphale will be Crowley’s champion, as Crowley has so often been his - it is his turn now, to find Crowley, to come to Crowley rather than have Crowley come to him.

 

It is time for him to put the universe back to rights - no more Angelic meddling, no more prayers that drag on forever like diary entries, no more incessant pining, no more madness, no more riding the brake.

 

He flexes his hands, then flexes his wings, and takes off into the sky, unsure where he’s headed, but he knows that wherever he is compelled to land, he will find Crowley.

 

He passes through clouds, over tree-tops, over hills, in the dips of valleys, following the curling roads into Sussex, and then he hears it.

 

_“There's no time for us… there's no place for us..._

_What is this thing that builds our dreams, yet slips away from us?_

_Who wants to live forever? Who wants to live forever?”_

 

The mournful crooning is coming from the cottages of Cuckmere Haven, in the South Downs of East Sussex.

 

Aziraphale can see, in his mind’s eye, Crowley’s lips, redder than usual, stained with wine, and his long, gangly limbs draped over a lush bed - the entire collection of cottages, facing the Seven Sisters Chalk Cliffs, is miraculously emptied. Not a soul vacationing there, or overseeing the cottages.

 

Apparently, Crowley wanted to be left alone with his wine, and Queen, so he could sing along as loudly, and as drunkenly as he pleased.

 

Aziraphale ‘tuts,’ to himself over it, but really, it’s a bit cute.

 

Crowley’s a bit cute.

 

_“There's no chance for us… it's all decided for us._

_This world has only one... sweet moment... set aside for us..._

_Who wants to live forever? Who wants to live forever?”_

 

The instrumentals blast from the cottage unnaturally, just as Aziraphale lands outside the door of the cottage, tucking his winds politely behind him.

 

_“Who dares to love forever,_

_When love must die?”_

 

The guitar coming in allows Aziraphale to enter the cottage unnoticed by Crowley; he wonders idly if Crowley being drunk will put his nerves more at ease, or worsen them for the proclamations he means to make.

 

Either way, he’s about to find out.

 

_“But touch my tears... with your lips,_

_Touch my world - with your fingertips,_

_And we can have forever!_

_And we can love forever… forever is our today.”_

 

It would seem that Crowley’s taken residence in the highest room of the most East-facing cottage.

 

It’s strangely fitting.

 

Like a call to Aziraphale.

 

And, Aziraphale has to admit, Crowley’s voice, even atop those of Queen, isn’t so unpleasant a sound. He certainly sounds forlorn, which Aziraphale intends to fix, but, otherwise, Crowley’s singing isn’t an unwelcome thing.

 

Perhaps, given time, he might actually want to sing for Aziraphale. Really sing. Properly.

 

Azirphale would like that.

 

_“Who wants to live forever? Who wants to live forever?_

_Forever is our today… who waits forever, anyway?”_

 

He considers knocking on the door, but he thinks Crowley wouldn’t. Not at a seminal moment such as this.

 

No, Crowley is much more a 'storm the castle,' 'we ride at dawn,' type of being - certainly not interested in commonplace pleasantries when there's a chance for a dramatic entrance, and a grand gesture.

 

If the tables were turned, Crowley wouldn't knock.

 

So, Aziraphale doesn’t.

 

He takes a deep, deep inhalation, then swings the door open to Crowley’s bedroom.


	5. Only You Can Make Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I heard y'all like crazy fuckin long romantic, schmoopy sex scenes - is that right??? i hope so! anyway here's wonder wall

Clearly caught off guard, Crowley shoots upright as _Play the Game_ begins, but with a flap of his hand, the music lowers to near silence.

 

“Angel?”

 

“Specifically Aziraphale, yes,” he answers hurriedly, a bit breathless and unsure as to why, “Not Hanael, which I hope doesn’t disappoint. Not Sandalphon, or Michael, or Gabriel, or Uriel, or anyone else. Just me. Aziraphale.”

 

“Yeah, no, I got that, I can see still… what are you doing here, Specifically Aziraphale?” Crowley slurs.

 

With a huff, Aziraphale states, “I think… we need to get ourselves sorted, Crowley.”

 

“Sorted? Like Hogwarts houses?”

 

“What?” Aziraphale asks.

 

“You’re an awful book-keeper,” Crowley complains, clearly not meaning it seriously, though Aziraphale misses the joke; Crowley takes a moment to sober himself, and several bottles of 1988 Château Margaux refill themselves around the room.

 

“Sorry. Was wallowing,” Crowley says by way of explanation, “You need something? How’d you find me?”

 

“Same way you found me in seventeen ninety-three, I suppose. And nineteen forty-one, actually. You’re remarkably good at finding me, you know,” Aziraphale observes, wondering if it was God helping Crowley all this time, to get him to Aziraphale at every eleventh hour.

 

“What?” Crowley parrots, looking disheveled, and lovely, and dense, and perfect.

 

Impulsively, Aziraphale steps into the room, wrings his wrists for a moment, and then, thinking it simultaneously a too-grand gesture, and a too-small one, he kneels down before the foot of the bed, an apparently repentant pose.

 

Crowley goes to stand, but gives pause, legs halfway off the bed, when he sees how Aziraphale keeps his head down.

 

“Oh, Crowley. I’ve been… slow. You… you’ve been so patient, and I’ve been such a fool.”

 

“I’m really lost here, Angel, can you clarify, just… anything?”

 

Aziraphale turns his face up at Crowley, and adds, “you’re wonderful, Crowley. I even enjoy you when you’re being petty, or naughty, or doing things I don’t quite understand, and I think you’re just terribly handsome, really, very, very handsome, and... I love you.”

 

Crowley’s mouth is taking on the shape of an _“I know you love me, you’re an Angel, you love everything,”_ type noise, so before he can say anything remotely like that, Aziraphale explains, “ _more_ than Angels love, in a way different than Angels love, normally, Crowley... and I think you’ve misunderstood me about Hanael. I never wanted them, I never meant for you to think I wanted anyone but you...”

 

It doesn’t escape Aziraphale’s notice that Crowley still has his sunglasses on.

 

It’s usually a sign that Crowley feels unsafe, or unsure. 

 

He really only lets his eyes show when he’s feeling his most comfortable, and confident. Even then, not always.

 

Aziraphale does so love to see Crowley’s eyes, though.

 

He stares up into the shaded lenses, and seeks out those familiar, slitted pupils beyond, holding Crowley’s gaze.

 

“What I’m trying to say, is… if ever we were to, I’d like you to perish first, Crowley.”

 

He watches Crowley’s jaw clench, sees how the apple in his throat bobs, how his hands curl into fists on the duvet.

 

“That seems an ill-wish,” Crowley mumbles, voice hoarse.

 

Aziraphale’s sparkling eyes scrunch up, wrinkling at the corners, and his smile is shy, and hopeful, when he answers, “a bit macabre, I’ll grant you, but it does make sense, a bit, when you love someone as... I love you.”

 

A quiet beat passes.

 

“Do you understand me, Crowley?”

 

“I thought…” Crowley begins stiltedly, softly, “... Hanael -”

 

“Hanael could never love you like I love you,” Aziraphale jumps to say, “Not given another six thousand years, or six thousand millennia, I guarantee it - darling, I was never jealous over them. I was jealous over _you_. The very _thought_ of another Angel in your life, other than me…”

 

Crowley’s high, sharp cheekbones are very dark now, rosy in an unprecedented way, and Aziraphale thinks they’re just lovely that way.

 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says on an exhale, “... I covet you, Crowley. How ever will you forgive me?”

 

There’s another beat, and then Crowley, with a cocked brow, just barely mutters to himself, “... did I pass out from wine consumption?”

 

“No, and you’re not hallucinating, and it’s no trick of magic, and you’re not receiving some type of vision, or any other wild scenario you might come up with,” Aziraphale tells him sternly, hands balling up into fists on the tops of his thighs, “Yesterday, I meant to tell you… well, I suppose that ever since that night at the Church, when you saved me -”

 

“I didn’t really _sa_ -”

 

“Hush up, darling, you did - anyway, I’ve been trying to tell you ever since that night, truly, I always meant to, I always...  but I’ve just… never managed.”

 

Aziraphale gazes up at Crowley, watches as his onyx wings unfold, and stretch out, maybe in an effort to make Aziraphale feel more comfortable with his own showing.

 

“You’re so… so courageous, Crowley,” Aziraphale compliments, “So unapologetically you, so authentic… my old lot could’ve learned a lot by you, you know. I’d feel sorry for them, missing out on you, but I’m really rather pleased to keep you all to myself.”

 

Realizing his own over-step, Aziraphale clears his throat, and adds more quietly, “if - if you’ll have me, of course.”

 

Crowley stands from the bed, takes a single step, and then kneels down opposite Aziraphale, so they’re both on their knees, making them level, but for the inch or so of height Crowley has over Aziraphale.

 

“This is surreal for me.”

 

There are so many questions Aziraphale could ask, in response to that, but, deep down, he’s quite sure he knows what Crowley means by it. 

 

Cautiously, Aziraphale reaches up, only the very tips of his fingers touching the silver sides of Crowley’s glasses. He stops there, and looks closely into Crowley’s face, waiting for some sign that Crowley is ready to leap with him.

 

It does take a moment, but Crowley inclines his head ever so slightly, and Aziraphale smiles, removes the glasses, only breaking eye-contact with Crowley long enough to put them aside, heart-thing pounding like never before.

 

When Crowley finally looks up into Aziraphale’s eyes with his gaze bare, his diamond pupils dilate, he licks his lips with his forked tongue in a single, glistening roll, and he opens his mouth, as if to say something, but he can’t.

 

Aziraphale stares at Crowley’s sharp canines, wonders if they’re ever venomous, wonders what they’ll feel like on his flesh, and then he leans forward, tilting his head just so - an open invitation. 

 

Crowley’s eyelids seem heavy, and his vision seems entirely focused on Aziraphale’s mouth, as though he’s _hungry_ for it; that sets a very pleasant burning sensation in Aziraphale’s abdomen - something about _tempting_ Crowley so, it’s backwards, and perhaps wrong, but it’s also very, very right, and it feels _incredible_. 

 

It feels incredible to be so visibly, so unabashedly, so undeniably, and deeply desired.

 

Crowley’s golden, and amber eyes flicker back up into Aziraphale’s - he feels a jolt in his torso, somewhere, and then it’s as if he’s in free fall - Crowley’s left hand comes to cup his cheek, and Crowley closes the distance between them so sweetly, so gently, but with remarkable, magnetizing _feeling._

 

The Earth trembles violently when their lips meet.

 

Aziraphale can’t tell which one of them is causing the quake, but he’s also never cared less about the state of the planet, so he makes no effort to investigate it.

 

Uncaring as well, Crowley presses more firmly against him, his palm on Aziraphale’s cheek so warm, just a little coarse, just so perfect, so comforting, so unexpectedly _romantic_ , and Aziraphale is so _weak_. 

 

Crowley’s fingertips burn Aziraphale’s skin, and Crowley’s kiss sears him, and he wants Crowley’s hands, Crowley’s lips, Crowley’s fangs, wings, eyes, tongue, body - oh, _he wants_ , and wants so _terribly_ , so suddenly, as if every moment of unadulterated desire he’s shelved over six thousand years has all come tumbling down on him at once!

 

He wants Crowley’s love, in all forms it takes, and he has those loves. He can feel it.

 

 _Oh_ , he can feel it.

 

He wants Crowley’s attraction, and he has it. He’s seen it - he sees it still, even with eyes shut, he sees it. Maybe he’s always seen it.

 

He wants Crowley’s mind, soul, and body.

 

Sandalphon’s scroll proved to Aziraphale that he takes up a great deal of space in Crowley’s mind, and so he knows he has it. He has Crowley’s mind as he has never dreamt he’d have it.

 

He has Crowley’s soul, not in the most traditional sense of ownership, but in that Crowley loves him so unconditionally, they are enmeshed, and Aziraphale knows that the Self, the Soul, is unconditional love, compassion, calm, and all things sure. All certainty. So much stronger than doubt.

 

He has Crowley’s mind, and soul, and now he wants Crowley’s body, craves its curves, beauties, imperfections, oddities, softness, hardness, in all the ways animals and humans crave body, and pleasures of the flesh.

 

He wants to use his body to give Crowley any sensation he might ever desire, bind it to Crowley’s, just as their souls are enmeshed, and he wants only to bring Crowley pleasure, pleasure enough to stop Crowley ever wanting to pray to anyone but him ever again.

 

He wants to worship at Crowley’s altar, he wants no land of Crowley left unknown to his tongue, lips, and fingertips; he wants Crowley to crawl inside him and be part of him always, and he wants to bury himself in Crowley, and have it all burn, and punish him well, so he can covet, and indulge, and surrender to everything base and simple in him.

 

Unintentionally, Aziraphale moans against Crowley’s mouth, imagining all the ways he wants to take Crowley, and be taken by Crowley, and Crowley shudders against him, drawing away enough to gasp.

 

“You realize I’m getting all that, right?”

 

“What?”

 

Aziraphale can feel the shape of Crowley’s devilish smile, still so close to his own lips.

 

“Angel, Angel… you think such pretty things about me. Don’t stop now.”

 

“Oh, Heavens,” Aziraphale says on a breath, but then it turns into a dreamy sigh as Crowley’s thumb brushes back and forth on Aziraphale’s cheek, and the kissing resumes.

 

Thunder claps from directly above them, while outside the cottage, at the shore, the water begins receding at a dangerous rate, and distance, and a localized snowstorm takes up all of Manchester.

 

Crowley’s tongue sweeps across Aziraphale’s bottom lip, and Aziraphale’s throat makes an embarrassing, involuntary noise as Crowley’s tongue finds its way into Aziraphale’s mouth. 

 

In his shock at just how electrifying the touch is, his hand comes to grasp Crowley’s left wrist, and his entire palm tingles at the contact, his fingers alone falling deep into temptation at just the feeling of the smooth skin of Crowley’s wrist.

 

Aziraphale’s not done this type of thing before - there’s just never been call for it, really - he’s never wanted any of this before Crowley. Crowley’s the only one he’s ever wanted any of this _with_. He understands the mechanisms at work, though, and he knows what sensations he wants to create, in himself, and in Crowley. 

 

He’s quite excited at the prospect of growing very familiar with these particular sensations. 

 

Aziraphale’s tongue brushes the sharp tip of one of Crowley’s fangs, and he jumps, but refuses to detach from Crowley - Crowley does frighten him in the best of ways. 

 

“What do you want, Angel?” Crowley murmurs, lips still brushing with every movement.

 

“All of you, everything - now,” Aziraphale answers, pleased at the answering groan he receives.

 

Before Crowley can respond, Aziraphale moves his hand from Crowley’s wrist, down his forearm, petting him with purpose, with meaning, down to his elbow, then up to his shoulder, and then his neck.

 

He cups Crowley’s neck, petting a thumb over the bouncing jugular there.

 

They meet eyes again, and Crowley’s seem a bit dewey, though Aziraphale would never dare say so aloud.

 

“You’re everything to me.”

 

“Oh, I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale smiles, whole body comfortably too-hot, “More than anything. More than anyone. And so differently. You are… oh, to say you’re everything to me doesn’t do it enough justice, dear. I’m so in love with you…”

 

In the same second that Aziraphale finds his back on the floor, he feels Crowley’s skin touch his - the contact is _everywhere_ \- and it takes a moment for Aziraphale to realize Crowley must have Miracled their clothes away (he does hope his are folded carefully somewhere), and Aziraphale shuts his eyes against the dizziness.

 

He's never felt so much of Crowley before.

 

Crowley prowls over him, his wings outstretched, his entire body so serpentine, so beautiful, so perfectly, quintessentially  _Crowley_.

 

“Tell me to, and I’ll stop all the world for you, Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers against his collarbone, kissing down his chest, “I can give you everything. I want to. If you change your mind, though -”

 

“I _won’t_ -”

 

“ _If_ you change your mind,” Crowley tells him seriously, drawing himself up again to make eye-contact, “I’ll still be madly in love with you, and I’ll do whatever you need, or want me to. Okay? Just tell me what you want, what you need, and I’ll make it happen.”

 

 

_Yes, alright. I’ll do that one. My treat._

 

Oh, and he had really come through for Aziraphale.

 

_Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, Angel. Only humans do that._

 

That was true, and he’d arrived just in time.

 

_Stopping you getting into trouble!_

 

Always more inclined to be getting _into_ trouble, and he’d still managed to get Aziraphale out of it.

 

_Little Demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?_

 

How could Aziraphale ever look at another, _ever_ ? How could anyone - _ever_ \- compare?

 

_I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go._

 

He’d meant it, too.

 

_Well, let’s have lunch, mm? I still owe you one from Paris._

 

Couldn’t recall whose side had begun the Reign of Terror, but he’d remembered owing Aziraphale a lunch.

 

_Would I lie to you?_

 

Truth was, no - Crowley would never lie to _him_.

 

_You could Miracle it away…_

 

But he hadn’t needed to, because Crowley was all too willing to do it for him.

 

_Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we can go off together._

 

Oh, sweet Crowley. Together. Always, together.

 

_We can run away together. Alpha Centauri!_

 

He never did run off, did he? Never left Earth, not without Aziraphale.

 

_Look, wherever you are, I’ll come to you._

 

Fool was going to drink himself stupid to the End of the World, even with an escape plan, all because Aziraphale wasn’t with him. And still, Aziraphale knows in his soul, he could’ve been anywhere, and Crowley would have come for him. Absolutely anywhere.

 

_You can stay at my place, if you like._

 

Was there nothing Crowley was unwilling to share with Aziraphale?

 

**_Come up with something, or I’ll never talk to you again!_ **

 

Oh, and he had, hadn’t he? Just a bluff - an obvious one, at that - and Crowley stopped all of Time. 

 

 

He knows Crowley would do anything for him.

 

Crowley already has.

 

His feelings currently are too intense for him to smile, though there’s a smiling type feeling in his chest, mixed up with all the other unidentifiable ones. Maybe it shows in his eyes, though his eyes feel watery.  

 

He pulls Crowley down to him by the neck, kisses him ardently, and wonders what it is that Crowley makes him feel, because ‘love,’ doesn’t begin to cover it. 

 

Love is much too ordinary, much too feeble, much too human, and much too commonplace - too infinitesimal a thing to ascribe to the feeling Crowley gives him. 

 

Love is so simple, so uncomplicated, and just not fantastical enough a word for all the glory, the sin, the beauty, the surety, the torture, the purity, and cosmos between them.

 

Aziraphale huffs a hot breath against Crowley’s mouth, “I need you. I feel like my corporeal self could burst between atoms at any moment if I don’t have so much more of you, and very soon.”

 

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you, Angel?” Crowley wonders back.

 

One of Aziraphale’s arms slides down from Crowley’s front, over his ribs, feeling how it gives Crowley chills, and he gently rubs the space between Crowley’s shoulder-blades. 

 

To Aziraphale’s surprise, there’s snakeskin there - scales that lift up off the skin, and morph into feathers, and as he pets up and down, he realizes the scales must trail all of Crowley’s spine.

 

It’s indescribably beautiful.

 

He wonders if the scales are ruby as Crowley’s hair, or ebony as his wings.

 

“Show me.”

 

He finally looks into Crowley’s face to see Crowley’s eyes shut, and brows knit in this unfamiliar expression of tortured pleasure. 

 

His scales and feathers must be sensitive.

 

“Sh-show you what?”

 

“What I do to you.”

 

Crowley’s eyes open, his pupils blown wide as they go, and he looks very dangerous - feral, even. If he didn’t know Crowley to be one of the kindest souls to ever walk the Earth, he might even be frightened of them, but really, he can’t help but feel safe, seeing those eyes.

 

Even in a dark wood, somewhere foreign, somewhere Aziraphale was sure he was mean to be alone - through the blackness and brush, if he saw those eyes shining back at him, he’d know, with all surety, that he was safe as safe can be.

 

“Have you thought about this? About us like this?” Aziraphale asks, “Tell me. Tell me all of it.”

 

Massaging the muscles around Crowley’s wings, now with both hands, Crowley only _just_ keeps his weight from collapsing onto Aziraphale, and his eyes shut again on a long, lovely groan.

 

“God, Aziraphale, I’ve thought about you like this forever…”

 

“Forever?”

 

“Forever,” Crowley confirms, “Thought about it at the Garden, about kissing you right up there against the gate, getting under those white robes, even thought your ankles were sexy. Thought about getting my hands on you in a flower patch, thought about the desert, even, how you’d shine like a diamond in the sand.”

 

Aziraphale’s fore and middle fingers find a highly productive motion on the scales between Crowley’s wings, and Crowley’s head falls forward, forehead against Aziraphale’s chest, shoulders hunched, arms shaking, and with his weight more forward, Aziraphale can finally, physically feel Crowley's arousal.

 

Crowley’s form is well-endowed, and his cock throbs against Aziraphale’s thigh the more he touches Crowley’s back.

 

“Go on,” Aziraphale breathes out on a high pitch, feeling light-headed, “More. You’re doing wonderfully.”

 

“Oh, fuck,” Crowley moans, falling from palm, to elbow, one long plane of beautiful, reactive flesh against Aziraphale’s entire body.

 

“A bit of praise, darling?” Aziraphale teases sweetly, “You like that? You deserve it.”

 

“Fuck, fuck,” Crowley moans, thrusting lazily against Aziraphale’s inner-thigh, shaking from head to toe.

 

“Tell me more,” Aziraphale encourages, amazed at how his touch effects Crowley.

 

Has his touch always effected Crowley thus? 

 

How Crowley has kept composure all these millennia is truly a mystery. 

 

“The bookshop.”

 

Ministrations paused for the moment, Aziraphale cocks a brow, and asks with genuine intrigue, “the bookshop? _My_ bookshop? You’ve thought about us, in a sexual nature, in my bookshop?”

 

Crowley picks himself up enough to look into Aziraphale’s eyes, and answers, “yeah, of course.”

 

“Fascinating,” Aziraphale says, while actually meaning, _‘how did I not sense thoughts and feelings of debauchery in my own home?_ ’ and then adds, “Say more.”

 

Crowley huffs a laugh, brings a hand to Aziraphale’s face, and while tracing the Angel’s bottom lip with his thumb, replies, “I’ve thought about throwing you up against the door, drawing the curtains, but not switching the sign to ‘closed,’ just to keep you nervous, leaving your nicely pressed pants on, pretty waistcoat and jacket on, getting you undone only enough to get your cock out, getting down on my knees, and sucking you down until you can’t see straight.”

 

The receding water rushes back to the shore outside, cleaner, and clearer than before, and full of fish that did not exist in these waters beforehand. 

 

“...oh…”

 

“I’ve thought about following you to the back room, after hours, right where Gabriel always wants to meet, getting your pants and jacket off, then getting you on your hands and _knees_ ,” Crowley hisses, hand moving into Aziraphale’s hair, “I’d lather you up with just my tongue. I’d hold your legs apart, get a hand under you, and milk you for all you’re worth. And I’d always hope Gabriel would visit after, not know what to make of the smells back there, but you’d know. And I’d know.”

 

Eight hundred street lights within, and surrounding London burn the brightest they ever have (perhaps brighter than they normally _can_ ), very suddenly, which consequentially, though blessedly temporarily, blinds hundreds of confused pedestrians.  

 

“Good God, Crowley…”

 

“I’ve thought about getting you comfortable in one of your armchairs, stripping you bare, climbing into your lap, and riding you long into the night,” Crowley mutters lovingly, “Broad daylight, I'd start, with the windows letting the light through, but front door curtains drawn, and ‘closed,’ sign up - I wouldn’t give you time to be nervous. Not about anything. I’d make you mad.”

 

“What?”

 

Crowley smirks, “whenever I pictured it, I always imagined you’d be reading, and I could interrupt you, get you worked up something awful, right? Disappear your clothes, kissing you all the while, until all you had left on was that ring of yours, and then, in your lap, I'd unfold my wings."

 

Aziraphale's jaw drops, and Crowley smiles evilly at him, "see? Imagine my massive wings in that cramped shop of yours, and you'd be so hard, so tempted, so desperate for me, you'd grab my hips, and force me down on you. With every push you made in me, every jump in your lap I gave, my wings would knock over valuables, aggravate you to no end - and you could finish, deep in me, but that wouldn't keep us from staining the chair. And, well, you could Miracle it away, but you'd always know it was there. Underneath."

 

Aziraphale feels his hairline burning.

 

"Crowley..."

 

"Oh?" Crowley inquires, semi-sweetly, petting the side of Aziraphale's face, "That one? You like that one, don't you? I can taste it in the air."

 

Crowley sinks into Aziraphale's flesh like he has a mind to blend them into a single being, which is not altogether as off-putting as it should be.

 

He moves against Aziraphale like a snake moves against soft grass, kisses are shared, fingertips dance over shivering skin, time gets fuzzy at the edges, sort of unimportant, really, while Crowley's sucking a bruise into Aziraphale's neck, and Aziraphale wonders what could have happened in the Before - if, say, in Rome, he'd pulled Crowley back to his place after their lunch, and fallen to Temptation.

 

Before he knew Crowley as he does now, before he trusted Crowley so implicitly, there was a time that Aziraphale dared to believe that Crowley was _intentionally_ trying to Tempt him. After all, he can't even begin to imagine the field day Crowley's head office would have had, if he'd been able to drag a Principality down - why, he'd probably never have had to work another day in his life. It would have been his crowning achievement, made him a true legend among Demons.

 

But as time passed, and more clandestine meetings were held, more lunches and dinners were shared, more jokes were made, more favors shrugged away, it became apparent that Crowley had no intention of making Aziraphale Fall. It doesn't seem that it even ever occurred to Crowley to try.

 

In time, Aziraphale came to accept that he quite simply found Crowley delectable, tempting all by himself, not trying, just in being - that made things harder, and easier, simultaneously. Made it easier to trust Crowley, which in turn made being a Good Angel more difficult, and it made long, lonesome nights longer, and even more lonesome, while still giving him something to smile privately to himself about. 

 

While he hums appreciatively for Crowley's lips, and tongue, he thinks of golden sand, sparkling diamonds, glistening rivers, verdant gardens, and succulent apples. He thinks of Crowley's imposing profile, of his eyes the colors of flames, of his bony wrists, of his dexterous hands; of the scales that so poetically shift into feathers on Crowley's back, of Crowley's hearty laugh, of his sneer, of his hiss, of his bite, of his smile, of those _fangs_ , and without meaning to do anything at all, Aziraphale begs aloud, "bite me."

 

There's a beat.

 

"Repeat that."

 

"Bite me," Aziraphale breathes out nervously, "Bite me. I want you to bite me."

 

Crowley does Aziraphale the single favor of not picking his head up to look at Aziraphale's ruby-red face.

 

Aziraphale is endlessly grateful.

 

Instead, Crowley decides to trust Aziraphale's judgement, and with a sharp intake, bites down on Aziraphale's jugular.

 

" _Oh_ , _**God**_!" Aziraphale shouts, his hands curling into a desperate grasp on Crowley's flesh.

 

"Good?" Crowley asks, voice hoarse, lapping away at the place he'd bitten.

 

" _So_ good," Aziraphale shakily tells him, his pulse reverberating through his entire form, "Again - more - don't stop, don't ever stop."

 

He _feels_ Crowley smile against him, and then he's biting, and licking his way down and around Aziraphale's neck, clavicle, and chest, marking him up, and admiring his own handiwork as he goes - his hands wander down Aziraphale's sides, lovingly, with a tenderness Aziraphale could never have known Crowley was capable of, and it's startling, and almost Too Much.

 

Aziraphale's eyes flutter open to watch what Crowley will do next, trying to forecast what will happen in the coming moments, and hopefully prevent anymore embarrassing noises than are strictly necessary. He has the distinct feeling he will fail miserably at that.

 

He's distracted immediately, anyway - he opens his eyes to those dark wings, expanded over them both like an enormous, flexed muscle, like a show of power, and there's an aura visible around Crowley, scarlet, and golden, and beautiful.

 

Feeling like a proper Demon to all of Aziraphale's senses, Crowley moves down in that serpentine way, that way that's laughably dramatic, but genuinely seductive at the same time, that way he moves that always makes Aziraphale wonder to himself _'how does he make that look so good?'_

 

A rough thumb grazes Azirphale's left nipple, and he lets out another involuntary yelp as Crowley's mouth latches onto the other, licking, and sucking, and applying just the right amount of pressure between the teeth.

 

He grips the back of Crowley's hair, fisting his hand there, pulling gently while still pushing his chest out for more contact, and Crowley groans against him, cock throbbing, wings twitching.

 

He laves away at Aziraphale's nipples, twisting whichever one he isn't suckling at, making Aziraphale jump, and whine, and plead. 

 

"You've never felt need like this before, have you?" Crowley asks, voice gravelly and low.

 

"No," Aziraphale confesses, breath a hard thing to come by, his heart loud, and violent, "Have you?"

 

"No," Crowley answers back, his breath a brief, hot flash over the blonde and white hairs at the base of Aziraphale's abdomen; then, with no other warning than that, he takes the head of Aziraphale's cock into his mouth, drool already slipping down the shaft from Crowley's mouth, and Aziraphale's hands have to fly to his own head, grip his own hair to keep from doing potentially unwelcome things. 

 

It's a slow, patient slide of obscenely wet heat, and Crowley's tongue works hard for him, wrapping, and sliding about, and Crowley keeps turning his head back and forth, as he bobs up and down, his nails digging into the underside of Aziraphale's thighs, he's _moaning_ wantonly around Aziraphale, the vibrations traveling up his entire spine, shaking his very core - the blood in his skull is rushing around so hard, so fast, Aziraphale can't even hear the noises he's making anymore. He decides he'll feel embarrassed later - so long as he can have more of _this_ right _now_.

 

This very pleasant, electrifying sensation coils at the base of Aziraphale's spine, not unlike a snake readying to strike, and it makes a sweet, Siren's call to Aziraphale's senses, tells him to forget all use of his mouth, his hands, his mind, and to let Crowley give him this, without any further thought, or movement, other than to push down on Crowley's skull, and buck up into Crowley's throat. 

 

He's able to fight that Temptation long enough to stutter, "I want - oh - oh, _God_ , _oh_ , _Crowley_ \- Crowley, I want - _oh_ , I want to give you..."

 

"Give me what?" Crowley asks a moment later, having taken Aziraphale's cock in hand, slaver glistening all over his hand, and Aziraphale's cock; it's a filthy sight, and one that Aziraphale will revisit endlessly for all of time, "Can't imagine anything better than this."

 

"Yes, you can," Aziraphale groans, that fizzing, coiling sensation making itself more apparent, "You have."

 

Crowley's eyes widen for a split second, understanding dawning on his handsome features, and then he lets go, crawls up Aziraphale's body again, plants his hands on Aziraphale's chest, and leans back. His weight distributes itself between his knees, which straddle Aziraphale's waist, and his hands, that place a reassuring pressure on Aziraphale's upper-body. He looks so self-assured, Aziraphale is nearly envious again.

 

"Can I say something just... absolutely filthy to you?" Crowley asks.

 

Intrigued, and in want of Crowley's voice, Aziraphale tells him, "please."

 

One hand abandons Aziraphale's chest in favor of gripping him below, where he's hard as his body's ever made him, and wet with drool.

 

Crowley lines him up between the cute globes of his arse, and with a smirk, Crowley admits, "I've been _gagging_ for you for nearly six thousand years, and I knew back then - I just _knew_ you'd have a gorgeous, fat, cock, and I can't tell you how supremely pleased I am with myself that I was so, _so_ right."

 

Aziraphale's entire body burns up with a blush that must scatter across his face, neck, chest, and shoulders, but he can only pay attention to that for a few seconds, as that's all he's allotted before Crowley is seating himself fully on Aziraphale's, reportedly, 'gorgeous, fat, cock.' 

 

Parts of Azirapahle's body want to shut off, it seems - certainly his higher brain functions, but other parts as well, like some of the sensory input feels too extreme, too much, but he refuses to block any of it out. If Crowley is meant to overwhelm him, then so be it. He'd be quite happy to melt right here, anyway, be reduced to atomic dust.

 

One sense he keeps communicating with, despite its best efforts to make him shut his eyes, is his sight. 

 

He looks up at Crowley, and he's overcome. Just, entirely overcome.

 

His jet black wings are spread enough to knock down books, shelves, and break all manner of furniture, his aura is glowing, spreading with an enormity he feels inside, that's leaking to the outside, and his body is so beautiful, he is the subject of all poetry, music, in every art that has ever been beautiful, he embodies all at once.

 

He's a long, lean line of muscle, dark nipples pert against the air, his chest thrust outward, making Aziraphale's mouth water; his ribs are showing just a bit, and his back is arched dramatically like a bowstring, every muscle is strung up, taut, and his head is thrown back, his neck on vulnerable display - he's beauty beyond the conception of it. 

 

He's painfully, gorgeously, sinfully, beautifully perfect in every way, and the notion that Hanael could have had any of this, over Aziraphale, fills him with a possessive flare that Crowley _feels_.

 

He looks down at Aziraphale, panting, cocking a brow, as if to ask 'what are you thinking?' - but Aziraphale doesn't answer.

 

Not verbally, anyway.

 

He takes Crowley's lithe waist in his hands, lifts him, and cants his hips up, just as he brings all of Crowley's weight down on him.

 

" _Fuck_ \- !"

" _Yes_!"

 

They stare at each other, fighting for breath, and then Aziraphale does it again, and again, impaling Crowley on him, thinking over, and over to himself that Crowley is his - Crowley was made for him, he for Crowley, and no Angel, Arch or otherwise, has the right he does to this glorious bounty. 

 

Crowley is his to adore, his to worship, his to fuck, his to take into his own body, his to kiss, to lick, to bite, and to be lovingly tortured in just the same way by Crowley.

 

Six thousand years, and now he has it - he has all the love he could possibly contain, all the multitudes of being that there are, he wants, and is wanted in return, and Crowley is so bloody perfect, so damning, so powerful -

 

"C-Catching all that, Angel," Crowley cries out, his face red with flattery, and exertion; he's bouncing on Aziraphale's waist, his arse a fiery hot vice around Aziraphale's cock, "I-I have to admit, I like this jealous side to you."

 

Looking knowingly at Crowley, in a way Crowley often does to Aziraphale, Aziraphale fucks up into Crowley again, eliciting a positively _Heavenly_ moan, and replies, "you just like the praise, I think."

 

"Wouldn't matter from anyone but you."

 

Heart bumping hard, eyes getting misty, Aziraphale curses again, threatens to bruise Crowley's hips with his hold, and Crowley only encourages him, moaning, groaning, crying, "oh, God," "fuck," "yes," "right there," "oh, Angel," "Aziraphale," "please," "don't stop," and several variations thereof. 

 

Aziraphale finds he much prefers those sounds over any celestial harmony, and that's a thought Crowley must catch as well, somehow, because he laughs, beats his wings and shifts his weight to his hands again, to ride Aziraphale at his own speed.

 

"You like - you like me too much," Crowley stammers out, glistening with sweat.

 

Aziraphale feels much the same, holds on tightly to Crowley, "I like you a great - oh, _fuck_ , _**fuck**_ \- a great deal more than that - darling, I'm very close to coming, and I've no idea what the p-protocol is."

 

Crowley's thoughts spill into Aziraphale's then; something giggly, about how silly it is that Aziraphale uses a word like 'protocol.' 

 

"Come, Angel," Crowley encourages, scraping his nails down Aziraphale's chest, teasing his already, highly sensitive nipples, "I wanna feel it. I wanna feel it in me. Come for me."

 

Aziraphale's wings bang against the floor, and he happens to know it's raining sunflowers outside, but he's not sure what it means, or which one of them is causing it.

 

" _Aziraphale_."

 

"Mm?" Aziraphale struggles to ask back, eyes shut against the onslaught of all the beauty, the sinful scents, sounds, tastes, and feelings.

 

"I'm fucking in love with you."

 

Wings acting of their own accord, Aziraphale is sat up by them, and he wraps his arms around Crowley's middle, bites, and kisses his chest, his hands bruising everywhere they touch, because he can't get enough, he can never, ever have enough, and a tear's rolling down his cheek when he says back, "I'm fucking in love with you too, Crowley."

 

Crowley's arms wrap around his neck, his head, and hold him close - Aziraphale loses himself somewhere deep, and warm in Crowley, and Crowley makes a flattering mess between their bellies within the same heartbeat. 

 

It takes a good, long while for either of them to catch their breath.

 

They do need to move, but it can wait.

 

"Move in with me," Aziraphale murmurs against Crowley's skin, "We belong together. Don't like being away from you anymore. Okay?"

 

"Yeah," Crowley agrees, though his voice is choked up a bit, "Yeah. I can... we should. We should do that."

 

Aziraphale smiles against him, nuzzling, and muttering softly, gently, "I love you."

 

There's a pause, and if Aziraphale could feel anything other than incandescent happiness pouring out of every synapse and molecule that makes up Crowley's psyche, he'd worry over it.

 

Thankfully, he doesn't have to.

 

"I love _you_ , Angel," Crowley answers back with certainty.

 

When the night has come, and the cottage is bustling with people again (people Crowley had purposefully displaced earlier that day, so he could be dramatic in privacy), and Manchester's been taken care of, and the ocean, and the storm, and the flowers have all been dealt with, and normalcy has been restored to some degree, Aziraphale curls around Crowley, sharing a bed in the eastern-most facing room, and waits for Crowley's breathing to even out.

 

Sweet, calm slumber passes over Crowley like a sliver of moonlight gliding over a windowpane, and Crowley is his. Crowley loves him, and he loves Crowley, and it's perfect, it's beautiful, it's bad, and good, and it's everything he was never meant to have, and everything he was made to be, and it's - it's ineffable.

 

It's ineffable.

 

Smiling to himself, Aziraphale shuts his eyes, imagining what will be written.

 

**First prayer of the day, spoken internally, made by Aziraphale, Angel, on September 15th, 2019 AD, 1:21am; location Eastern-most facing room in Cuckmere Haven, South Downs of East Sussex, England, Earth;**

 

_I am so happy._

_He is everything to me, and when he is hurt, I will mend him. And when he is good, I will praise him. And when he is anything at all, for every other hour, of every other day, for the next eternity, I will simply love him as well as I can, as well as he deserves, and with all of me, forever._

_Thank You._

_Thank You._

_Thank You._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic of] Madman and a Fool](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21407914) by [carboncopies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carboncopies/pseuds/carboncopies)




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